I tried riding in that swing, and let me tell you, it’s not a fun ride, not fun or pretty at all!
I feel like I’m hanging between the highest sky and the lowest ground-zero, lost between Black and White , hence the dream of invading the world starting by Europe which was something that used to make me smile, is nothing now that I’m actually a small dot in the grand Europe.
I feel like I’ve been stripped of all my weapons except for nagging! And that surely would not help me win any wars or invade even a grocery store in this no-man’s land.

Well, as they say here “Laisse Tomber!” or as they say in English “Drop it!”
Yes! Dropping it since I’m not entitled to make any decisions yet, since I’m a newly-born baby to this environment, learning from the world around and absorbing how everyone is acting, or even worse, it’s more like a monkey-see monkey-do for me.

Therefore adaptation must take its toll on me regardless how mean or how nice the Frenchies can be, or how tough life can be (even when it comes to super basic needs like food, shelter, and shoulder), and regardless how wet I’m right now (not sexually but by the massive rain of Marseille), and finally, regardless how big and fat my ass is getting because of expressing my nostalgia by eating whatever Syrian food I can cook

So mote it be, let operation “Adaptation” begin!
(Only for the thing that I can get adapted to, other things like the aquarium in my pants won’t find their way to a solution)

- Knock knock...
- Who is it?
- It's winter!
- Winter who?
- The very same winter, but in different city.

The captain’s voice echoed across the “Airbus A320” declaring in Arabic and in English “Both with a Syrian accent” that we were about to crash and burn or hopefully land safely in the international airport of Marseille.
Perhaps I would have appreciated the joke if I weren’t in a worst-to-wear humor.

I pulled aside the curtains and pressed myself to the windows like a kid against the candy jam, as galaxies and stars were surrounding me like a corn field.
I looked down and I was about to cheat on the beauty of imperfection of Damascus upon witnessing the glorious shades of the marvelous big city lights, gradient of artificial beauty fading to be swallowed in the heart of the mighty sea.

The plane started to tilt and swivel to make me feel like I was “Heidi” on her mumbo-jumbo kite, with my puppy-like wide eyes were staring showing how “enchanté(d)” I was, but I reached out to pull myself back off the window to remind myself that cities always look more divine from above, just like how people look more humane from a distance.

The big metal ship touched the French soil then I was next, and I started walking through the terminal feeling harmless, floors and stairs were moving automatically underneath my feet carrying me to my destination, doors were opening dynamically for me, and people were smiling to me as if the whole city was welcoming me, swallowing me within, or at least this is how I wanted to think it were maybe to help me de-melanho-lize the moment.

It was 1:39AM
“Bonjour Monsieur” and “Au Revoir” were the only things I heard from the “personnel” at the airport who were not drinking “Matteh” or giving me the “7el 3an Rabby 3and Hal Masa” look.

I left the airport to be stroke by the witty wet taste of the sea carried by the “Venti”, and I took a deep breath swallowing the entire sea that was on the tips of my tongue, which for a moment (I swear) made me feel like I could taste the other end of the Mediterranean in Lattakia.

I rushed out to meet “Shafique” and “Abbas” who were the perfect sample of Arabs in France, the sample that makes you want not to meet more Arabs in Europe…
They took me to the place where I’m supposed to live for a while, and left me to sleep, while on the contrary I sat there terrified of surrendering my soul to sleep…

Nostalgia is like a grammar lesson: You find the present tense and the past perfect

My heart was mercilessly ripped out of my chest the very second I turned my back on her to walk through the tunnel, to walk towards the light, the light that never warms.
I walked with head bowed, surrounded by an aura of neither regret nor shame, as it was only mere grief, grief that almost stripped me off my pride forcing silent tears of nostalgia to flow massively down my dry-as-a-bone face.

“Damascus”, the lady whom I adored and still do with every single breath and every heart beat.
The lady whom I shared with my dear magnificent ups, all along with my excruciating downs.
The lady that I left behind cradling the greatest people on earth, my family and friends, knowing quite well that she will be comforting them enough by holding them tight and telling them that I will be back for them with bags full of adventures and a little experience.

I wasn’t sure if that moment was a beginning of a breathtaking dream or just a big hole swallowing me into a never-ending malicious nightmare, but all I knew that it was a terrible moment, as terrible as the moment when I kissed my Dad good bye into his grave, after 26 years away from the second he kisses my forehead good night for the first time into my cradle.

Thank you all, my precious Dad’s soul, my most favorite two precious ladies, my close precious friends, and everyone who ever looked at me with a gesture of respect, love, appreciation, and even envy.
Thank you sincerely for being there to give me the reason to come back home, and to actually have a home in the first place…

All of those feelings were kept safely in my right pocket as I rushed to be treated as a Syrian citizen for the last time before a year passes by at least.
I jumped on the plane with a struggle within, almost had a heart attack by a catatonic overload, before remembering that my heart s not with me anymore, my heart is still “en guard” in Damascus.

I looked back and I said “À bientôt”, paused for a second then shook my head and said…
“بـشـوف وشّـــك بـخـيــر يــا شــــام”

Pendant les temps anciens, il n’y avait pas des frontières comme aujourd’hui…
Au ce moment-la, quand tu partais de ou arrivais à une ville, tu entrais par ou sortais d’une de ses grandes portes.

Mon voyage et le voyage de ce blog a commencé quand je suis parti la Syrie en embrassant « Bab Tuma », la plus proche à l’aéroport de Damas.
Bab Tuma «la Porte Saint-Thomas» est un arrondissement du Vieux-Damas, la Syrie. et une des portes dans les murs historiques de la ville. Elle a obtenu son nom à Thomas, un des douze apôtres de Jésus-Christ.





Et le voyage va continuer après mon arrivée à Marseille, et l’entrer par la «Porte d’Aix»
La place Jules-Guesde est une place des 1er, 2e et 3e arrondissements de Marseille construite à l'emplacement de la porte, dans les anciens remparts de la ville, ouvrant sur le chemin d'Aix-en-Provence. Elle est, de ce fait, appelée couramment porte d'Aix. Au centre de la place se dresse un arc de triomphe.





Alors tout le monde, on y va ... bon voyage avec moi ...

#include
using namespace std;

void main()
{
    // a geek joke , you don't have to understand this
    cout << "Hello World!" << endl;
    while(true)
    {
          // something to make your computer halt :P
          cout << "Welcome to my blog" << endl;
    }

}